


The Sea Wolf

by Banana Bard (Geu23)



Series: Whiskery Kisses [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Child Abandonment, Creature Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Gen, Geralt's mum is mentioned, He's fucking confused, He's more than a witcher, Minor Character Death, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24242779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geu23/pseuds/Banana%20Bard
Summary: There's a memory, faded and something from long ago, of auburn hair and laughter, the feeling of whiskery kisses and whuffs of warm air across his forehead as he struggled to wake. Only to have skilled fingers tickle along his ribs, raspberries pressed against his cheeks and unbridled joy that morning. Small glimpses of a wet cloak, light brown and spotted, rolled up and tucked away where his curious hands wouldn’t reach.After becoming a witcher and walking the Path, Geralt finds that there was more to his mother than magic.
Series: Whiskery Kisses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750438
Comments: 20
Kudos: 81





	The Sea Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There is mention of children deaths (in regards to the sacking of Kaer Morhen). and copious amounts of swearing later on.

As a child, he remembered his mother staying close by water. It didn’t matter the source; it could be a river, a lake or even an ocean, she would always choose to stay near it. Wherever they travelled, water was never far.

When he had been given ~~- _left behind, abandoned, unwanted, discarded_ \- ~~ to the witcher school of the wolf, all he could think of was that ~~- _he was alone. Why was he left behind? Did she not love him anymore? What did he do wrong?!_ \- ~~ he didn’t like the mountains or the keep or how his body aches every day. 

After the trial of the grasses - after the pain, the shock, the filth, the deaths - he picks a new name, devours whatever knowledge is placed in front of him, sharpens his mind and his skills; he wasn’t going to be a knight, he’s going to become the best witcher possible; brave and fast and _good_. And then he was picked for additional mutations.

He wanted to die as he felt his bones warping, his blood searing through him, pain flaring as he thrashed and convulsed; he almost bit through his tongue on newly sharpened teeth just to stop himself from screaming. Slowly, so slowly, the pain subsides - it was still there, lingering, throbbing in his bones, eating away at his raw nerves. 

Geralt comes to; the stench of blood, piss and waste stinking the air around him. He’s dazed, in pain, but he’s fucking _alive_ compared to the cold bodies of the other boys around him. He recovers because there’s no other choice. His auburn hair, the only reminder of his mother after the grasses stole his eyes and gave him amber ones instead, is replaced with stark white strands. He grows it out, long enough to tie and then, with a sharp dagger, he removes the last traces of her (his only parent, the one who had left him, abandoned him on the mountain when he went to fetch water for her). 

More time passed. They train, they learn, they become full fledged witchers and are sent on their way on The Path. It’s a rude wake up call - after all the pain, all they go through to be ready and armed to handle monsters, stones and insults are hurled his way. Mutant. Freak. Abomination. Child stealer. Just a monster who killed other, worse monsters.

He does his best, keeping his head down, staying on The Path, finding contracts, killing monsters and collecting his coin. The years pass, all of it bleeding together; contract after contract, abuse and mistreatment, the places and seasons change but the people - _the fucking people_ \- were the same.

But then the sacking of Kaer Morhen happened. When news reaches him, he’s beyond shocked and the next thing he knows, he’s on Roach, racing back to the mountains. He barely sleeps during the journey, resting only when his horse couldn’t carry on.

It’s agonising, having to rest when all he wants to do is continue. When he finally arrives, he is greeted by collapsing walls, burnt stone and bodies - his mentors, his trainers, his _juniors, the children!_ \- strewn about. Geralt is shocked to find Eskel and Lambert, and an injured but recovering Vesemir within the keep’s crumbling walls.

They did their best to bury the dead, digging the hard ground and laying the bodies - some are so heartbreakingly small - down neatly. They cleared the damage, taking turns to care for their recovering mentor. Slowly, others trickled back from the Path and together they worked to secure the keep.

Some had wanted to seek revenge for those responsible - the mages and the mob that attacked them and theirs! The wards should’ve kept Kaer Morhen safe, kept it hidden and secured from common man so they knew, they knew, that mages and sorcerers were involved.

It was madness, enough had died. The school of the wolf was reduced to such small numbers, every member counted and they couldn’t just throw their lives away because of revenge. They argued, yelling and hissing as they tried to change the others’ opinion but it all stopped when Vesemir appeared. 

The lone survivor of the sacking itself, the oldest wolf, Vesemir stated clearly that they needed to focus on themselves, on those that were here and aline, not on those that were buried and gone or on those that had caused those deaths. Many understood, a small number were unsatisfied but their baying for blood stopped.

Geralt stayed behind with Eskel and Vesemir the year following the sacking. Slowly they rebuilt what was damaged or destroyed, their wards were checked and reinforced, the crumbled walls and debris were cleared away and replaced. 

Less return that winter, the keep sombre and quiet as they all remembered their dead, their ghosts lingering within the walls. Spring could not come fast enough, for all of them. He had grown restless, waiting to head back on the Path; the pull growing stronger and stronger as the days passed at a glacial pace. Geralt is one of the first to leave the keep, this Roach impatient to be back on the Path once more, and he felt a sense of relief once the wide, open road lay before him. 

After some time, he noticed that this wasn’t just a pull back to the Path. It was insistent and tugging at him by the navel. It was a disconcerting sensation, like a hook behind his navel twisting and curling, pulling and _fucking uncomfortable!_

He ignored it, successfully, for a fortnight but the tugging and twisting feeling refused to leave him. It came to a head when it cost him on a contract, a moment of distraction and he was left laying in the dirt, bleeding, waiting for his cracked bones to settle and the potions to finish burning through his veins after he killed the griffin. It was almost dawn before he moved again, cutting the beast’s head off as proof for the alderman.

Geralt was in a foul mood and was thankful that he was given the agreed upon coin without incident. He collected Roach from the stables and pointed her in the direction of the unrelenting pulling.

He finds himself close to Ban Ard, in Kaedwen. The sensation was stronger and more precise, the pull leading him along the Liksela river, towards the Gory Sine mountains. Geralt doesn’t know what he’s looking for, there’s only this mysterious pull to show him the way. 

He has to leave Roach behind at one point, leaving her lead loose and allowing her to wander and graze while she waits. He carefully picks his way up the mountain, climbing further and further until he comes across a small cave. Here. This was where he was meant to come.

‘What could possibly be here?’ He wondered, hauling himself into the mouth of the cave. He’d never travelled this way before or knew anyone personally who would come this way. There was nothing here! Why the fuck then-?

_There!_ Along the far wall, a faint shimmer. He approaches the back of the cave, a ripple of magic pulses along one of the walls. The illusion falls when he’s close, revealing a folded dark cloak.

What. The. Fuck?

All this hassle, through all this time, travelling for weeks and a difficult climb up a mountain just to retrieve a piece of _fucking clothing?_

He’s half tempted to just leave it there, to rot, to be found by someone else, but why? There’s too many questions that won’t be answered here, in a mountain cave with no one else around, and the actual effort to keep it hidden here for who knows how long only for him to find it through a pull of magic.

Geralt straps the cloak to his back and makes his way down the mountain. He makes it back to Roach just as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. Setting up camp is no problem, thank the gods for his witcher eyesight, and he has a small fire beside him.

With dried meat in his belly and Roach settled for the night, he sat by the fire and, finally, unfurled the cloak. It’s big and thick, dark brown, with faint speckling along the flank and underside. He rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb, pondering.

There's a memory, faded and something from long ago, of auburn hair and laughter, the feeling of whiskery kisses and whuffs of warm air across his forehead as he struggled to wake. Only to have skilled fingers tickle along his ribs, raspberries pressed against his cheeks and unbridled joy that morning. Small glimpses of a wet cloak, light brown and spotted, rolled up and tucked away where his curious hands wouldn’t reach. 

He blinked back to the present, his fingers still stroking the pelt. Surely, that couldn’t be real. Just a false memory, conjured up during the darkest hour of the trials. Something to cling onto as he suffered through pain and poison and of being remade.

He shoved it away and roughly settled in for the night. There would be no answers for him tonight, or out here in the wilds. Surely, he’ll find it tomorrow.

Geralt finds it, but not in the way he expected. 

He had packed up camp, the only things left was his armour and the cloak. He hears the river nearby and it had been a taxing climb up and then down the mountain the previous day. A bath sounded nice and it wouldn’t take long. He would be clean and on his way back to Ban Ard, just past noon or early evening. 

Mind made up, he leaves with the cloak over one shoulder, it could serve as a towel for now. The water is ice cold, the bed uneven with rocks, and slippery with moss. He doesn't linger too long in the calm waters, reluctantly pulling himself away from the deeper middle of the river and back towards the outcrop of stones he had left his belongings on. 

He was still waist deep and had just grabbed the cloak when there was a sudden rush of displaced water, catching him completely unaware and sweeping him off his feet and under the river’s surface. It was disorientating, the cloak wrapped around him and suddenly, everything was calm. He wasn’t being strangled or hindered by the pelt, it was gone from view but something was off. His body… his body felt different. He could see better under the water, feeling the slightest vibration across his face, particularly along his upper lip. His legs were pressed together and when he kicked them, they moved like one. 

Geralt turned around, his body more flexible than before and was shocked at the white fur that covered his skin, his body transformed into that of a seal. He broke the surface, flailing as he tried to quickly adjust to this foreign body he found himself in. 

It took a few deep breaths - to slow his rabbiting heart and racing mind - before he was calm enough to make his way to shore. It took a lot of wiggling and a drag-hop motion to be completely clear of the river. 

He pawed at his chest, there must be something, an inseam to pick at and pull away from his body. Finally, something catches on his flipper ~~_\- how is this his life? What? Who the fuck did he piss off in his last life?! -_~~ and the coat pulled away from him, his witcher body returned to him. He gasps, clutching at the fur coat, now matching his white hair.

What the fuck? What the ever loving fuck? 

Was it a spell? An enchanted cloak? 

He looks back at the river, shaking - from the cold, from the realisation that this could not be a spell, from the shock of it all. He didn’t know.

Just, what the fuck is he?

**Author's Note:**

> Y'er a selkie, Geralt.
> 
> Special thanks to my charming bestie, @bleedingsmirk - who proof read and gave me some pointers.


End file.
